


anomalous dichromacy; or the precipice of a shift in philosophy

by pyknicGinger



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, M/M, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-27 06:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 21,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6273058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyknicGinger/pseuds/pyknicGinger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sanji comes to terms with the futility of an existence rooted in the mundane. Usopp learns that French is the first language of pretentious assholes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. god200 and the gangster trash chef

**Author's Note:**

> how do proofread

**_1._ **

He works at the bar on odd afternoons when the old man kicks him out of the kitchen for stirring up trouble with the other chefs (he's a perfectionist and it's slowly grinding away at the already-tense relationships he has with his coworkers) or he's too emotionally taut to focus properly or he just needs to _leave_. It's a friend-of-a-friend sort of deal _—_ Gin, one of Patty and Carne's old drinking buddies, owns the place, and the three of them had helped out when it first started _—_ and he doesn't take pay for what he does while he's there. It's not a job, really. Just a kind of not-vacation that's more of the same thing he does every day.

Gin, of course, thinks it's hysterical that a two-Michelin-star chef is constantly running away to a standalone dive joint near the edge of the city, but he never complains when Sanji shows up at weird hours and walks into the back room without a word. He never advertises to the customers that there's this hot shot celebrity of the culinary world preparing their burgers and steaks for however long, either, and Sanji's grateful for that.

There's a kind of relief, Sanji thinks, in cooking for people who're eating because they're hungry, not because they want to publish four paragraphs of scathing commentary on the back pages of an internet blog. The Dreadnaught is always rowdy _—_ thick, scarred-wood, mismatched tables filled with large men and young women and groups of friends, laughing and talking as they finish their plates clean. It's a different sort of chaos from the _Baratie_ , where there's a spirit-crushing pressure to perfect every portion rolling out of the kitchen on a silver platter. Even though the bar is always busy and the cooks behind the window are always rushed, the place seems oddly peaceful in its own way.

Sanji doesn't always drop in to cook, though. On rare occasions he'll sit at the bar and smoke quietly, stirring the ice in whatever drink Gin sets in front of him with the fingers of his free hand, thinking about all the choices he's ever made in his life. And in some extraordinary moments, he'll actually strike up a one-sided conversation with the bartender. Gin humors him, nodding at all the right moments as Sanji monologues, but half the time Sanji mumbles about recipes and marketing and the merits of faking his own death, and Gin doesn't follow most of it enough to respond with any sort of conviction. (Although sometimes, when business is slow, he'll try.)

(Today is one of those days.)

"If you're that miserable, why don't you just haul ass out of there and do your own damn thing?" he grunts, half focused on both his sort-of-but-not-really friend and an off-duty police officer tiredly asking for whiskey. Or at least Sanji thinks that's the case _—_ he's staring down at the wet rings on the bar like they've got the answer to life itself held in their shining swirls, and isn't paying much attention to Gin or the conversation at all.

Even so, Sanji sighs, and it's sort of pitiful sound _—_ resigned and exhausted and something else (something even he doesn't know) all at once. "I can't," he responds, just as gruff.

In the background, someone laughs loud and low, and there's the sound of glass bottles clinking together. A raucous shout of, "And then I said to him _—_ I said, _I'm_ the damn expert here _—_ been in carpentry for years _—_ but if you think you can do better, go right ahead! And I gave him the fuckin' riffler and he just _stared_ at me, like _—_ I swear to God _—_ like he couldn't believe this was happening. Good luck carving that damn staircase volute yourself, asshole, I said, and I just about walked out. You should have _seen_ his face _—_ "

Gin shuffles over after he's given the other customer his drink and leans against the back of the bar directly in front of Sanji, arms crossed. He's got the sleeves of his black button-down shirt rolled up to the elbows, showing off forearms painted down to the wrist with a permanent record of his life and interests and whatever else fits his fancy, and for a fleeting moment Sanji wonders what it would be like to get a tattoo himself. In theory, he could do it. He's covered from head to toe in French chef's whites when he works in the _Baratie_ , long sleeves and long pants and a shirt that closes tight around his neck (strangling him), so in theory no one would be able to tell. But Zeff would pitch a fit and he has a reputation to uphold even outside the restaurant, and he's not really sure he would actually _want_ to get one, anyway. Just thinking about the irreversibility of it all sets him on edge, so he wills the train of thought away and sips his drink, frowning.

He's got the elbow of his other arm resting on the bar with a cigarette wedged loosely between his fingers, and while he's caught up in his own head Gin hauls himself back up straight and plucks it out of his hand, taking a lazy drag. Sanji glares, but doesn't comment. He's too tired, somehow, despite the fact that it's only two in the afternoon.

After a long moment, Gin rolls his eyes, blowing smoke out toward the dim ceiling lights. "You say that, but you and I both know you'll be back in here next week debating with yourself about the pros and cons of jumping ship to a damn food truck. Or suicide. I honestly can't even tell anymore." He raises both eyebrows at Sanji and passes what's left of the cigarette back, and Sanji grumbles curses at the fact that it's almost down to the end already. He takes the last pull it's good for and then just leaves it between his lips, tan edge smoldering.

"Ditching would murder Zeff's career," Sanji mumbles around the filter, already fumbling around in the inside pocket of his suit jacket for his pack and lighter. "And that's as good as killing myself either way."

Gin shifts his weight and crosses his arms again just as the policeman waves him over, and in the temporary conversation lull that follows Sanji snuffs out the Marlboro stub in the ashtray to his left and starts burning a second right on its heels. When Gin returns, empty glass in hand, he's scowling. "You need to get screwed or go screw someone. You spend too much time in front of a stove and it's fucking with your head," he says as he starts up the sink behind the bar.

Sanji just kind of looks at him, only mildly amused by the statement. "You should be a therapist," he hums. "I bet you could make bank with advice like that."

"Fuck off."

"Not here, I won't," Sanji deadpans back, and Gin snorts.

"Thank God for that."

They lapse into another silence, then, as Gin finishes cleaning the glassware and tumblers in the bottom of the sink and starts drying each with a hand towel, lining them up on the counter as he goes. Just like the rest of the place, they're mismatched, no more than three of the same kind. Round bottoms, square bases, tall, short. Martini glasses and wine glasses and shot glasses and a mug that says _World's Baddest Bitch_ in chipped, hot pink lettering.

( _Pink chipped letters, thinly-sliced salmon, ginger shavings, diced radishes, crushed lobster shells, pickled onions, strawberries and raspberries and watermelon. Limoncello._ )

Sanji sucks hard on his cigarette and stares back down at his drink. It's still mostly full despite the fact that he's been sipping it for over an hour now. The ice is melted, though, so that could be helping the illusion of sobriety along, he thinks.

Eventually, the afternoon crowd starts to dissipate, and the bar slips into the downtime between lunch and dinner. It's not empty; there's still that one group of four people _—_ maybe construction workers who've finished their work for the day, judging by their clothes and conversation _—_ near the middle of the room, and at a table toward the back of the place (by the kitchen door) is a young man hunched over something in front of him. He's got a mess of wild, curly black hair poofing around his upper body, though, so Sanji can't see his face or actually tell what he's doing. He doesn't particularly care either way, though.

Only when Gin leaves the counter to collect plates and wipe down tables does Sanji finally realize that the place seems almost _too_ quiet now, even with the few patrons left around. It feels like there are people missing who shouldn't be, which would explain why the owner is doing a busboy's job. Although Gin doesn't seem particularly put off by the work, Sanji can't help but call, "Where's the brat?" to satisfy his own mild curiosity.

Gin shrugs and doesn't look up. "Not here. He went AWOL three days ago. Two more and he's fired."

Sanji raises an eyebrow. "That's pretty damn lenient if you ask me."

"He's a good kid," Gin sighs, balancing a plastic bin of disgusting plates on his hip as he moves to the next table. "He's just got skewed priorities or whatever. It's spring break season so he's probably dicking around somewhere. Unfortunately for me, though, that means I'm going to be short-staffed this Tuesday night, and those are always busy as fuck in March."

Something sets the construction workers roaring with laughter again and one of them pounds the table, throwing his head back as everything around him rattles. Gin snaps at them ( _Shut the fuck up, Tilestone, before you break something_ ) and they apologize good-naturedly, and Sanji can't help but wonder if this is what running a restaurant _should_ be like.

He doesn't really think before what he says next comes out of his mouth, and after he _has_ said it he regrets ever even coming in to the bar at all. Because Tuesday nights at the Dreadnaught are beyond hellish _—_ they're anarchistic, indescribably lawless. The whole place explodes into a chaotic warzone that Sanji has always made a very clear point never, never, _never_ to step foot anywhere near. But for some reason the sight of Gin laughing with his customers and the emptiness of the place and how frustrated he'd sounded when he'd admitted things were going to get rough without all of his staff has Sanji calling, "I could help out for a few hours if you need it," anyway.

Gin just kind of blinks at him before bursting into loud guffaws, and the sound echoes through the whole building. Sanji has half a mind to just leave at that reaction, to head back in the general direction of the _Baratie_ and suffer there instead, but after a moment the bartender catches his breath and says, "Fuck, that would be really great. I know it's not your scene, but I'd appreciate the hell out of you if you could."

_Well, shit_ , Sanji thinks _—_ because Gin just looks so damn grateful that he can't backtrack now and leave with any sort of dignity. So he just shrugs and says, "Yeah, why not. It starts at eleven, right? That's after we close so there shouldn't be an issue."

He hauls himself up from the bar stool, then, wincing when his spine cracks. As much as he'd like to stay here, he actually _does_ have a job, and Zeff has probably already sent out a search party to track him down before the _Baratie_ doors open in a few hours. Gin has just finished clearing the last table, too, and he starts heading toward the back room with the dish bin as Sanji stands.

"Show up whenever you can," Gin says with another shrug. "You're doing me a favor either way." He throws one last _thanks_ over his shoulder before disappearing into the kitchens, leaving Sanji alone to gather his things and leave before Patty or Carne or anyone else can crash through the front door and tow him off. He has three days to mentally prepare himself for the mess he's just signed up for, and he'll need all the time he can get.

* * *

On Tuesdays, the Dreadnaught closes early _—_ ten-thirty _—_ and the whole place transforms. The main room is cleared out, some tables pushed up against the walls and most others moved to the back storage area to fill the space left as pieces of cheap construction scaffolding and massive speakers are dragged out in their stead. The bar stools go, too, so that the building becomes something like a general admission concert venue, standing room only.

The scaffolding gets stacked up two layers high against the side wall, towering over the empty center of the whole place, precarious and swaying under the pressure of the pounding bass and slamming feet on the wooden floor that feels like it could shake even the restaurant's concrete foundation. Every light is switched with neon fluorescents and strobes, the colors of which bounce off the haze of smoke wafting from hookahs set up on each of the few tables left, and by the end of the night the air will be so thick and entrancing visibility will be nonexistent at best, even with all of the windows open.

Sanji can hear the music from the parking lot, before he even opens his car door. It's like thunder, already in full swing even though it's barely past eleven-thirty, and as soon as he's out on the pavement he's already tugging too hard on his cigarette. He hates this, hates the noise the crowds and the atmosphere itself. And as soon as he opens the front door and the large man standing just inside _—_ one of the construction workers from a few days ago, he thinks, working as a bouncer for the place _—_ nods to him, he wants to run away. His head hurts already.

Even so, he weaves his way through the crowds _—_ already thick, pounding, and wild _—_ toward the bar, where Gin is scrambling with something blue and gelatin while simultaneously yelling at a young woman leaning halfway over the counter. At the top of the scaffolding, there's a large black DJ setup framed by more strobes, and Sanji can't even see the person silhouetted behind it without blinding himself.

Sanji's still in his suit, the same sort of outfit he wears almost every day of his life, and even with the bouncers, two frightened-looking waiters, and Gin himself in formal attire he's the best dressed in the building. Everyone else is wearing a little bit of everything, really. Cut-off shorts showing just the right amount of ass, thigh-high socks or tights, crop tops that barely count as clothing, heels sharp enough to kill a man; t-shirts, baggy ripped jeans, worn Converse sneakers; wide grins and carefree laughs. (The women, at least. All of the men look the same to him.)

A small part of Sanji thinks that maybe the sheer quantity of women here might make this whole hell worthwhile, but most of them will be drunk soon enough if they aren't already, and that could be more trouble than it's worth. Company is one thing, babysitting is another.

As soon as Gin sees him, the bartender starts frantically waving, cutting off wherever that train of thought had been headed (and snapping back his wandering gaze) before he can get himself into too much trouble. By the time Sanji squeezes behind the bar, Gin is back to shouting over the music at the woman, and the only reason Sanji doesn't chew him out for raising his voice at a lady is that he can barely hear himself think, much less formulate a decent insult.

After a moment or two more of arguing about what might be car keys or brie cheese or a strip tease, the woman stalks back to the center of the throbbing crowd with a huff, and Gin turns to the next person waiting. He doesn't even look at Sanji _—_ he just hands him a handle of rum and says, "Three Coppertone Punches, go," and starts taking orders down the line of people pressed against the bar.

It's anarchy, this whole place. But Sanji does what he's told and mixes the drinks with a kind of practiced finesse even though he's never really worked a day in his life as an actual bartender. No one complains that he's still smoking, and at this point he doubts anyone in the building would care either way. They're here for the music and the booze, not proper serving etiquette, and that's just fine with him. Gin sidles up to him after a while, whipping out glasses and concoctions like he's used to the pace of the demands (which he is, Sanji thinks) and Sanji finally yells, "Hey," over the din.

"Thanks for coming, seriously," Gin shouts back. "Whenever he plays people lose their shit."

Sanji sets two more drinks on the counter and they disappear in an instant. "I said I would so I'm here. I don't get why the hell everyone else is, though. This is a fucking mess."

Gin shrugs, taking someone's card and ID as he does, and replies, "Maybe, but it brings in good money and the kid doesn't charge much to come so I'm not about to start complaining."

Once again Sanji tries to look at the person on the scaffolding, and he manages a peek as the strobes flash in opposite directions. He can't tell if whoever is up there is even human, though, because the head of the silhouette is bulbous and spiked, bobbing with the beat of the music over the turntables. "What the fuck?"

Before Gin can respond, though, (if he even intends to) the cacophony dims in volume as the song winds down, and a voice echoes through the speakers, "Who's your god?" The crowd screams incoherently in response, just shrieks and wails, and the voice repeats, " _Who's your god?_ " a second time, louder and more insistent.

Suddenly, all the house lights in the place dim down, and two massive spot bulbs fixed to the middle of the platform brighten, illuminating the upper half of the scaffolding. Sanji really _does_ get a good look at the man at the top, then, and oh _—_ that explains why he'd looked like something from a shitty sci-fi movie.

The DJ is cloaked entirely in bright red, _literally_ cloaked, layers of vibrant fabric wrapped around his entire body like a Buddhist monk. The not-habit-but-probably-could-be is draped over one shoulder, long-sleeved, leaving the man's right arm, shoulder, and half of his upper torso bare, showing off skin partially covered with an intricate web of swirling tattoos that Sanji can't quite make out because of the distance and abnormal lighting.

The odd clothing, however, is not what catches him completely off guard.

Because in place of a _normal human head_ , the DJ has some kind of ridiculous rendition of an Aztec sun.

The mask is _huge_ and, as far as Sanji can tell, three-dimensional. It's a bright, gleaming gold with linear blue accents, and three curved rays protrude out past the DJ's shoulders, one on each side and the third directly on top. There's no discernable opening for the man's mouth so Sanji reasons there must be a microphone inside of the thing, but that clear design flaw also sets him wondering how the guy isn't dead. The _Dreadnaught_ is like an oven, now, filled with hookah smoke and smashing body heat, and the DJ must be straight up roasting in his thick robes and headdress.

( _A golden mask, ripe lemon skins, raw honey, activated yeast, kashkaval cheese, winter squash, chunked pineapples, olive oil, egg yolks. Crème de banane._ )

The DJ yells a third time, the same question, and more howling follows. Several (probably drunk) women and men fall to their knees in the middle of the throng. "God200!" The whole building roars back, screeches overlapping and each yell lasting a different length of time. It's like nails on a chalkboard and skidding tires on pavement and rabbits being torn apart by foxes all at once.

"I can't hear you!"

" _God200!_ "

Sanji just watches on, oddly enthralled by the sight as everyone _—_ inebriated to hell and completely sober alike _—_ goes Pentecostal, arms waving and chests heaving and throats cracking, and only when the music gets louder again does the strange sort of worship even _begin_ to die down.

Something nudges his side and when he turns to see Gin staring at him, amused, he realizes he's frozen halfway through making a drink. "It's wild, yeah?" the bartender chuckles, and Sanji snorts. It takes a moment for him to remember what he's supposed to be mixing and who it's for, but one of the swaying young men at the counter calls out a reminder and Sanji picks back up where he'd left off with a shouted apology that's only partially genuine.

Once the customer has his booze, Sanji starts on the next in line, and yells, "It's like you're hosting a cult," in Gin's general direction _—_ who just laughs again, throwing his head back.

"That sounds about right!"

"Jesus Christ."

The night continues like that, a cycle of hollered half-conversation over music that, to Sanji, all sounds the same. The whole place smells like sweat and sweet tobacco, and Sanji's convinced his suit will stink like bad decisions for the rest of its life _—_ something he doesn't really want to explain to Zeff or anyone else.

The DJ, God200, incites the crowd at sporadic intervals that don't make any sort of sense _—_ because as far as he can tell the chaos never once lets up enough to warrant rekindling _—_ and Sanji burns through almost a full pack of cigarettes by the time two am rolls around and people finally start stumbling out into the darkness. It's a slow trickle that Sanji doesn't notice at first, too wrapped up in trying to juggle alcohol and credit cards and his own pounding headache, but when he realizes he hasn't heard the DJ speak for a full half hour he finally looks up to see that the deformed black mass has disappeared from the scaffolding. With the provocateur gone, there's nothing left to hold the mob in place, even as the shit-that-might-be-music continues to play.

Around two-thirty, Sanji sets a finished glass of something neon pink and sticky on the counter and turns to take the next order, only to find that there's no one left waiting. The throng isn't pressed up against the bar anymore, and has shrunk to the point where he can actually see part of the wood floor through the haze of hookah smoke and vibrating feet. When he turns to Gin, the bartender already has the sink running _—_ something Sanji hadn't been able to hear over the noise _—_ and there's a sign in the middle of the counter that says _BAR CLOSED_ that Sanji thinks might have materialized out of thin air _._

All at once, it's like the adrenaline high he hadn't even realized he'd been riding cuts off dead _—_ the jarring end of a roller coaster as it jerks to a halt at the station _—_ and a brick wall of exhaustion hits him full in the face. Sanji does his best not to physically sag and fails miserably.

Gin must see it, too, because he looks Sanji up and down with one eyebrow raised and an expression on his face that's almost guilty. "Go home," he says, and for the first time in an eternity he's not shouting. "The doors shut in half an hour, and all that's left to do after that is kick people out and clean this shit up. You've done more than enough already."

Sanji just shakes his head. "I'm fine, thirty minutes won't kill me," he replies, but his voice sounds rough even to his own ringing ears. Gin keeps scrutinizing him, like he's trying to figure out whether or not Sanji's saying that to keep his promise or because he's a masochist, and when the bartender doesn't immediately respond Sanji half expects to be bodily thrown out of the place by one of the temporary bouncers. In an effort to prove his point, he sort of shoves him away from the sink with his hip and snatches the gooey glass from his hand in one jerky, frustrated motion, ready to set about washing the drinkware with all the resentful vigor of a stubborn teenage boy.

Predictably, he doesn't get far.

As soon as Gin regains his balance, he lets out a kind of _exasperated_ noise and reaches over to shut off the sink. Sanji growls out a low, _Oi!_ in response and tries to get the water running again, but Gin doesn't budge and the iron grip he has on the faucet stays firmly in place. "If you want to stay, that's on you. But at least take a fuckin' five minute break before you keel over. Go get a breath of fresh air or some shit. You haven't stopped working since you got here," he bites, and the concern in his voice makes Sanji even angrier.

"I'm _fine_."

"Bullshit." Gin punctuates the sentence by jamming his elbow sharply into Sanji's ribs, effectively removing him from in front of the sink.

Sanji yelps and has to grab the edge of the counter to stay upright because _holy shit, that hurt_ , and growls, "What the _fuck?_ " the second he's standing again. The bartender doesn't even blink.

"Five minutes, asshole. If you're still alive after that, you can stick around." There's no room for argument in his tone, but it's more of a challenge than a threat and that sends Sanji spiraling down from _riled up_ to _royally pissed off_ in less than an instant.

Without hesitation, he slams the dirty glass down on the counter and snaps, "Fucking _fine_ , you piece of shit."

Halfway to the back door, however, he hears Gin erupt into a fit of barely-stifled laughter over the music, and Sanji curses so loud several people nearby skirt out of his way.

* * *

In an effort to maintain some shred of dignity despite the fact that he'd been played like a damn guitar, Sanji resists the urge to stomp back toward the bar and kick Gin in the balls. Instead, he continues on his way, weaving through the kitchens and out the employee entrance, muttering profanity under his breath without stopping for a real gulp of air. As soon as the door slams shut behind him, however, the sudden almost-quiet of the dark parking lot startles him into an abrupt silence.

For a brief moment he panics, worried the pounding speakers finally burst his ear drums and he's gone deaf, but someone three car rows into the blackness lets out a high-pitched giggle and oh, okay _—_ he _can_ still hear. The music is thrumming through the walls of the _Dreadnaught_ , there are crickets somewhere in the shrubs nearby, and his footsteps actually make noise when he shuffles. Good.

Now relatively alone, however, his anger and embarrassment start to fade a bit by bit, and before he realizes it he's sitting on the steps that lead down to the barely-visible parking area.

( _A dark car lot, mission figs, squid ink, black sesame seeds, aged garlic, dried seaweed, ground coffee, mashed turtle beans, licorice candy. Salmiakki Koskenkorva._ )

Somewhere between the sink and here he'd managed to lose his cigarette, so he heaves a heavy sigh _—_ the kind of all-consuming huff that shakes his entire body _—_ and fumbles for one of the few he has left. As he's lighting it, part of him idly hopes the place doesn't catch on fire because of a misplaced filter slowly smoldering on the wood floor. The other half, of course, wants to laugh while the building burns.

Suddenly, a chorus of screams rises up from inside, and Sanji jumps a little, nearly dropping his lighter in the process. Even through the door, he can hear chaos erupt as the DJ's voice thunders through the speakers _—_ loud enough to pick up but not to the point where he can understand what's being said _—_ and Sanji blinks, tired and confused. Hadn't the guy left already? Or had he just been taking a break?

Whatever.

After a few moments the music returns, and Sanji is left staring blankly out into the night as half a dozen taxis start rolling in from the highway. He manages to convince himself that he'll go back inside as soon as he finishes smoking, but one cigarette turns into three and he doesn't even realize he's started dozing off until a voice to his right says, "If you drop that on your clothes you'll probably die in your sleep."

Sanji's head jerks up, jostling ash onto his slacks in the process, and despite a valiant effort to brush it off as quickly as possible all he manages to do is smudge the mess even more across his thigh, grinding it into the fabric. "Well, shit." If his suit had been even the least bit salvageable before, there's probably no hope for it now.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." (Whoever it is, however, doesn't sound the least bit apologetic at all.)

The shadowy glow of the parking lot lights makes the man standing at the bottom of the steps more a silhouette than a person, and Sanji's half-groggy brain reasons that he must have walked around the building from the front entrance because the back door hadn't opened. He doesn't recognize whoever it is (although that isn't a surprise, Sanji thinks _—_ the whole place has been filled to the brim with random strangers all night) but the outline of wild, dark, frizzy hair looks vaguely familiar. (Maybe he'd served him drinks earlier?) The guy has one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around the strap of a shoulder bag, and his head is tilted slightly to the side like he's watching to see what Sanji will do next. There's an amused note to his voice, too, that makes Sanji think he might be smirking and would probably laugh if he really _did_ set himself on fire, but Sanji can't see his face so he isn't really sure.

When Sanji doesn't answer, however, and just kind of blinks at him in the darkness for a long, drawn-out moment instead, the silhouette steps forward a little. "Are you okay, man?" He sounds genuinely concerned, quiet and hesitant, so Sanji thinks he must make a pretty fucking _sad_ picture sitting here half dead on the steps behind a temporary night club. Ruined suit and cigarette butt surroundings and sticky dress shoes and sweat-matted hair and dark circles and shaking hands.

Sanji nods stiffly, heaving a sigh as he tries to shake off the weird groggy funk he's let himself fall prey to. Stubbing out the half-finished cigarette on the concrete steps, he mutters, "Yeah, I'm fine," but there's a kind of rough, defeated undertone to it that betrays his words. The silhouette doesn't look particularly convinced if the way his posture _—_ half reaching out toward Sanji with one hand, fingers slightly curled in the air, while the other is tucked near his chest, near his heart _—_ doesn't change is any indication.

Before the guy can say anything, though, the door behind Sanji slams open, and only then does Sanji realize he can't hear the music anymore.

"Oh shit, I thought you went home," Gin says, and when Sanji turns around he sees the bartender standing in the doorway with a genuinely surprised expression on his face and two industrial-size, completely full trash bags in each hand. He's still got one foot half-raised from kicking open the door, too, and Sanji kind of hopes he falls over, balancing on a single leg like that.

"You said if I survived a five minute break I could stick around. You didn't actually specify what I had to do if I stayed," Sanji bites back, but his words don't have much of an edge. He'd gone back on his word, left his sort-of-friend alone in the wild for... however long now _—_ at least half an hour, maybe more _—_ when he'd promised to help, and even though he knows Gin doesn't blame him in the least Sanji can't help but feel like an ass.

Gin sighs and shakes his head a little, then starts picking his way down toward the parking lot, careful not to smack Sanji in the face with the trash bags. "Yeah, that's true. No use sticking around anymore, though." The guy Sanji had been talking to skirts out of the way when Gin makes it to the bottom of the steps, and as he passes Gin hands whoever it is two of the bags.

Although Sanji wouldn't put it past Gin to force menial chores onto random strangers without a word, the guy doesn't protest and just kind of rolls with it, so Sanji wonders if they really _do_ know each other. He runs down the list of _Dreadnaught_ employees he knows in his head, but he still can't really see the man clearly in the darkness and he doesn't have every single person working under Gin memorized in the first place, anyway. Sanji just kind of squints after the two of them as they make their way toward the dumpster and wonders why he cares so much. Stupid shitty tired brain latching onto stupid shitty irrelevant curiosities.

Mystery Guy continues on toward the rows of cars after he dumps the bags, leaving Gin to walk back and pity the miserable chef on his own. Sanji doesn't give him the chance and asks, "What time is it?" before Gin can say anything. It's too dark to see his watch properly and he's not about to blind himself with the light of his cell phone screen.

"Almost four," Gin replies, leaning against the railing as Sanji just kind of blinks at him. (No, that can't be right _—_ had he really dozed off out here? Well, fuck.) "Are you okay to drive?"

Sanji nods, then, and tries to ignore the fact that Gin doesn't look particularly convinced. By the time he hauls himself back on his feet, Sanji's distinctly aware of the fact that his ass has gone numb and he's actually kind of chilly, and he can't help but sway a little on his feet. "Yeah, I'm fine," Sanji huffs, although he's not really sure he's trying to reassure the bartender or himself.

Gin rolls his eyes.

(Fifteen minutes later Gin has taken his keys and shoved him in the back of a cab, shouting promises to drop his car off at the _Baratie_ tomorrow over Sanji's loud, creative, and venomously colorful protests.)

* * *

"We're doing orange and green this week."

Zeff huffs at Sanji, who's hunched over a worn, leather-bound notebook on the _Baratie_ kitchen's pick up table, and says, "We did that two weeks ago, brat. Think of something else." Sanji doesn't even glance at the head chef. He just says rigid, staring down at his own scrawled writing as he chews on the end of a pencil.

It's early Sunday morning, now _—le jour du l'enfer_ and the only day of the week the restaurant isn't open for guests _—_ and already Sanji has been in the kitchen for hours. He's surrounded by proof of that, two dozen tasting dishes lined up in a half circle large enough to cover most of the table, each a bright dichromate artwork framed in gleaming white-glazed ceramic. They're aesthetically beautiful, somehow both simplistic and unique in presentation, and Sanji _knows_ each one is a delicacy.

He _also_ knows that none will make this week's menu.

There is something wrong about each, something off _—_ something imperfect. And nothing imperfect will ever leave his kitchen. They will be eaten, yes _—_ if not by him than by the rest of the staff set to arrive by ten, an hour from now _—_ but that will be it.

"I don't care. Most of the fruits and vegetables in season right now are orange and green, so that's what I'm going to work with," Sanji replies, running a hand through his shaggy hair. He bumps his glasses in the process, tilting them enough to blur his vision and send a sudden spike of dizziness shooting into the front of his skull, and for a brief moment he squeezes his eyes shut, willing it away.

If Zeff notices, he doesn't comment.

Instead, Sanji hears the fabric of his clothes shift as the old man heaves another sigh. "Alright, fine. If we're redoing that, someone will need to make a run down to Franky's place," he grunts, and Sanji nods absently in agreement. Zeff pauses, then, like he's waiting for something, but when Sanji doesn't comment he adds, "Meaning _you_ , squirt." Sanji opens his eyes and turns to glare hard at the head chef, who just gives him a stern eyebrow raise in response. It's the kind of expression a shitty dad might give to his shitty kid _—_ frustrated and scolding and concerned all at once. "You've been here since four-thirty _—_ don't think I'm not fully aware of that _—_ and you haven't gone out for one of your damn smoke breaks in two hours. You'll kill everyone else as soon as they get here if you don't take some time."

Still scowling, Sanji stands up straight, spine popping in the process. His left foot is numb where he'd been leaning all of his weight against it, but he ignores the feeling. "I have work to do."

"So then do it. You can't come up with a menu if you don't have squat to work with," Zeff replies, just enough condescension in his tone to set Sanji seething.

"Send someone else."

"You'll just bite their damn head off when they get back for gettin' the wrong thing or the wrong quality or the wrong quantity, and then kick 'em out for whatever other bullshit excuse you can come up with."

Sanji opens his mouth to argue but finds he doesn't actually have a retort that wouldn't be some kind of lie, so he just clicks his jaw shut and growls. Zeff raises both eyebrows, then, and after a brief staring contest Sanji knows he's going to lose before it even starts, Sanji yells incoherently at the stove and grabs his notebook. As he leaves the kitchen, he makes sure his stomps are as loud and annoying as possible, not giving two shits about the fact that he sounds like a damn six year old in the process.

Twenty minutes, however, he's nowhere near the farm.

Instead, he's sitting in the _Dreadnaught_ parking lot, car idling as he tries to figure out whether or not anyone is actually in the building. It's fucking early _—_ too early for the bar, a lunch-and-dinner sort of establishment, to be open _—_ and he isn't even sure he _wants_ to go inside at all. He has no idea why he's here, really.

(That's a lie, though _—_ he knows exactly what he's doing. The same dichotomy of self that keeps him going back to the _Baratie_ when all he wants to do is run away has him fleeing his responsibilities now, too. He'll do what he needs to do and show up in time to get the day's work done, but he hates being told what to do _—hates it hates it hates it—_ so even though his stomach is churning and he thinks he might throw up, he knows he won't leave until he's satisfied with today's streak of futile rebellion.)

As it turns out, Gin _is_ around.

Sanji spots him through one of the windows, sweeping the floors, and that's enough of an invitation as any. The front entrance is locked, so he makes his way through the back door instead. He's never been here this early in the morning _—_ and on Sunday, no less _—_ so the emptiness of the usually bustling kitchens catches him a little off guard. The first time he'd seen the place devoid of shouting and sizzling meat had been on Tuesday, but at the time he'd been too pissed off and tired to really take it in. Now, though, the absolute _silence_ of the place reminds him too much of the _Baratie_ , so he makes his way through at a pace that's not quite a run, but not quite a walk, either.

Gin doesn't even blink when he emerges, only barely glancing up from his broom. There's soft jazz playing throughout the main room, another stark contrast to the usual chaos of the bar. When there are customers around, some local classic rock station plays the same sixty songs on loop for hours, and Sanji can't help but feel like he's in the wrong place for the second time in five minutes.

After a beat of quiet, Gin drawls, "You come to make me breakfast or some shit?" and Sanji snorts, effectively snapping out of the sort of melancholy stupor he'd slid into without noticing.

"...Eh, why the fuck not?" he replies, shrugging a little. It won't take long to whip something up _—_ another twenty minutes at most _—_ and that should be enough misplaced productivity to get him back on the road again. He doesn't bother asking Gin what he wants, well aware that the bartender will eat whatever he cooks without complaint _—_ and thoroughly enjoy it, too.

He's already rolling the sleeves of his dress shirt up, halfway back to the kitchens, however, when Gin suddenly speaks up in a kind of _oh shit I forgot_ tone. At first, Sanji thinks it's directed at him, but apparently he's not the only guest in the bar.

"Oi, Usopp _—_ you want anything? _Usopp!_ "

Sanji feels like he's a little justified in not noticing the guy, because he's seated at the farthest back table, completely wedged in one corner of the room. _Completely_ wedged, the back of his seat pressed against the wall with the table boxing him inside the alcove. He blends in, too _—_ dark hair and tan skin almost the same color as the heavily-stained walnut paneling in the shadows where the morning sunlight doesn't quite reach. He's wearing a pale yellow long-sleeved t-shirt that doesn't stand out much, either, and his frizzy curls are draped around his upper body, covering his face and whatever he's hunched over, making him look more like an unkempt mess than any kind of actual _person_.

Sanji is immediately hit with a wave of _déjà vu_ at the whole picture, like he's seen it a hundred times before, but he can't figure out where or when.

( _Dark brown hair, pumpernickel seeds, roasted almond skins, ground cacao powder, unpolished rice, charred catfish, raw sugar. Black chocolate stout._ )

When Gin calls what's presumably his name, however, the young man lifts his head and squints around, revealing the twin ends of a headphone wire that disappears into his hair. Gin waves a hand in Sanji's direction, rerouting his attention to the chef, and repeats the question after Usopp removes his earbuds.

The guy thinks for a moment, and then frowns. "Do I have to pay for it?" Sanji shakes his head slightly, not bothering to verbally respond because he's busy lighting a fresh cigarette, and Usopp breaks into a grin. "Awesome. Whatever you make is fine with me, then. Thanks!" he beams, before turning his attention back down to the thing in front of him _—_ a notebook, maybe.

Sanji takes a lazy drag and studies Usopp for a moment longer, trying to figure out where he's seen this guy before. Nothing comes to mind, though, so he hums low in mild irritation as he exhales and then gives up, turning back toward the kitchens to get breakfast started with whatever he can find.

Given that the place is a bar and grill, sweet creams and fruits are notably absent from the storage rooms and freezers, so he settles for prepping something savory. Halfway through collecting eggs and black pepper and spinach leaves and white onions and potatoes and red peppers and Monterey jack cheese, though, he realizes there's no flour, either. The quiche becomes frittata, and it works out for the best because scrapping the pastry crust halves time it takes to finish two portions.

Gin is doing inventory behind the bar when Sanji returns to the main room, a plate in each hand and a dishtowel over one shoulder, and Usopp hasn't budged an inch. He's hunched over the notebook in front of him again, barely visible under his own impressive mane, and for some reason the sight looks so integral to the layout of the room _—_ so oddly familiar _—_ that Sanji nearly forgets he's there and walks right past, subconsciously half-convinced he's a fixture of the decoration. Four paces from the bar Sanji realizes what he's done and falters, not entirely sure why his brain decided to block out _an entire person_ , but he plays it off like he'd been planning to give Gin his breakfast first all along. Neither man seems to notice.

The bartender doesn't even look up when Sanji sets his plate on the counter, too busy mumbling numbers under his breath as he jots down stock notes on pad of graph paper that's seen better days. Just to piss him off (because that's what not-friends are for), Sanji heaves an exaggerated sigh loud enough to carry through the entire room, blowing smoke directly at his face in the process, and Gin flips him off without pause.

"You're welcome, asshole," Sanji mutters. The bartender just rolls his eyes.

Usopp remains similarly unfazed when Sanji approaches with his food, but as soon he sets the frittata on the table the guy jerks _—_ clearly startled _—_ and whips his head up fast enough to hit the back of it against the wall behind him with a loud _crack_. It catches Sanji off guard, too, and he almost bites clean through his cigarette at the noise, wincing as Usopp shouts, " _Shit!_ " and curls into a sort of propped-up fetal position with his head in his hands and his eyes screwed shut. "Shit."

Now that he's right up next to him, Sanji can see that he has his headphones in again _—_ likely the reason he hadn't heard Sanji until it was too late. One ear has been knocked out by the force of the blow, though, and it's tangled rather impressively in his hair.

"Shit, you okay?" Sanji asks, still a little startled, just as Gin calls _Don't go breakin' my walls_ from across the room at exactly the same time.

At that, Usopp looks up _—_ eyes watery and face twisted in a painful glare _—_ and shouts, "Fuck your walls!" at a volume that might have been intimidating if his voice hadn't cracked midway through.

Sanji hears Gin snort, though, and without an ounce of sympathy the bartender drawls, "Nah, that'd be a pain to clean up," right back. Usopp lets out a kind of frustrated, pained wail in response and lifts one hand to flip Gin off around Sanji, who's still frozen directly in front of his table.

Now that Usopp is mostly upright, Sanji has a better view of the notebook he's been hunched over for the past however-long. He doesn't _intend_ to look _—_ not really _—_ but it's right in front of him and he can't help the fact that it catches his eye. And oh _—_ oh wow. This kid is _talented_.

The notebook, as it turns out, is a sketchbook _—_ one of those large, wide ones with thick, off-white paper and a wire spiral at the top to hold it all together; expensive, Sanji thinks, although he doesn't know much about traditional art so he can't really be sure _—_ and the page facing up is covered with a half-finished sketch that's nothing short of a goddamn _masterpiece_. It's the _Dreadnaught_ main room, the same one he's standing in now, and it's so _exact_ Sanji might think the drawing were a photograph if it had any color. The details are phenomenal _—_ right down to the individual shape of each tiny liquor bottle lined up behind the bar and the shadowy scorch marks across the floor near the front door from a Backdraft-gone-wrong two years ago _—_ and there's even a rough anatomically-inclined set of squares off to one side, the outline of what might be Gin going about his daily work when the piece is finished.

Usopp, oblivious of Sanji's stare, scoots the notebook to the side and reaches for the plate placed just within reach, and the action snaps Sanji's attention back to reality. He can't help wanting to pick up the sketchbook and scrutinize it, to drink in every minute pencil stroke and shaded smudge, because he's never seen anything quite like it before. But he doesn't _—_ he doesn't even know this guy, and even though it's a little odd that he's sitting in the restaurant before it's technically opened, he's just a customer that he'll probably never see again.

"Holy shit, this is really great!" Usopp pipes up suddenly around a mouthful of egg, and Sanji realizes he's still standing awkwardly in front of his table. He should probably move _—_ actually, he should probably leave. It's been almost an hour since he left the _Baratie_ , and he _does_ have work to do.

In an effort to play off the fact that he'd been staring, Sanji nods decisively. "Damn right it is," he says, and then turns around like he'd been only been standing around for Usopp's verdict. He hears the guy chuckle a little _—_ a light sound, carefree in a way that Sanji thinks he's never really heard before, not with the life he lives _—_ and he waves a hand over his shoulder as some kind of response to... whatever that was.

He's halfway back to the kitchen when Usopp mumbles, "Your food is always really good, though, so I probably should have expected that," around another bite, and Sanji kind of falters.

Although he's never really hidden the fact that he visits the _Dreadnaught_ more than he probably should, more often than not he spends his time back in the kitchens, leaving and entering through the back door without ever making his way through the main room. His time at the bar counter itself is proportionally low, not enough for anyone outside of the restaurant staff to realize he's a regular, but in all the time he's spent here he's never once seen Usopp. He's pretty sure he hasn't, at least.

Gin, who has also started in on his meal, pipes up at Usopp's statement. "I'm half inclined to offer your ass a job, but I know you'll never take it," he laughs, shaking his head. "You got any idea what having a Michelin chef on staff would do to the reputation of this place? I'd be fuckin' rich."

Sanji snorts, shoving both hands in his pockets, and starts walking again. "I never asked to be added to the book, you know," he says as Usopp lets out a sort of pained choking noise.

"Oh my god, you're in the _Michelin Guide_? Sanji, what the _fuck_?"

When Sanji turns to blink at him, Usopp has both arms flailing around like the only way he could possibly process that new tidbit of information is with outright physical panic, and his wild hair seems to reflect the emotion, somehow frizzed up even more than it had been just a few minutes ago. But all that's running through Sanji's head is _How the hell do you know my name?_ , a question he voices with a little more bite than he intends.

From the bar, Gin chokes out a loud laugh, and, as Sanji watches, Usopp's expression shifts from shock to unabashed hurt, like he's straight up wounded the guy or something, and Sanji almost (almost, but not quite) feels bad for asking,. Gin finally gets his wheezing under control and calls, "Wow, I knew you spent most of your time wrapped up in masochistic self-hatred, but I didn't think you were that fuckin' _dense_ , man."

_What the fuck?_

Usopp, still looking a little too much like he's been stepped on, frowns deeper. "I guess it's okay that you don't know who I am. We've only _actually_ talked once, I think," he sighs, turning back to his food.

Still thoroughly confused (and a little pissed off that no one has bothered to explain what's going on), Sanji just sort of stares at the guy for another moment and says, "Uh, sorry," in a tone that's only partially sincere. Usopp waves it off with a shrug.

At the stilted exchange, Gin starts laughing again, and Sanji shoots a glare in his general direction.

"Don't feel too bad, Usopp," the bartender says sarcastically, and when Sanji glances back at Usopp's table he sees the guy roll his eyes. "You're just a customer, and hot shots like him ain't got time for keepin' up with who they feed."

And that really _does_ set Sanji off (although, he thinks, that had probably been Gin's intention), so he whirls on Gin and spits, "Shut the _fuck_ up," with so much venom he hears Usopp kind of squeak.

Gin doesn't bat an eye, though, and just shoots Sanji a lazy middle finger in response. "It might not be your intention, but you can't deny the fact that it's true," he says, shoveling another bite of food into his mouth. "You come in every couple of days 'cause you can't stand the way your place is run, but you don't act any different once you're here. I've said it before and I'll say it again, man _—_ it's messing with your head."

"Fuck _off_."

"Your insults are especially creative today," Gin drawls back, unfazed. "But seriously. Name one customer you've served at the _Baratie_ who _wasn't_ a damn food critic."

"I swear to fucking _God—_ "

But Gin just waves him off and turns back to the racks of liquor behind him, resuming his inventory count and effectively ignoring Sanji from then on. Sanji _roars_ in frustration, irrationally _enraged_ because he hates that Gin is right, hates _himself_ because Gin hit the damn nail on the head, and hates that he can't justifiably kick the guy's gut for just stating a fact. Clouds are white, flaming shots are dangerous, and Sanji is a hypocrite of the highest degree.

Not entirely sure what to do but well aware that if he sticks around any longer, he'll either break something or hurt someone, Sanji spits out his cigarette and stubs it on the wood floor out of spite, before kicking open the damn kitchen door with enough force to slam it back into the opposite wall with a sharp _crack!_

Usopp yelps again, maybe, but Sanji doesn't particularly care that's he's scared the guy three times now, too focused on _getting the fuck out_.

He'd come to piss off Zeff and cool down a little from the morning's stress, and the exact opposite had happened _—_ at least on the latter's account. Not for the first time, Sanji considers just fucking off for good. Just driving for four goddamn days without a single glance back, because fuck this _—_ fuck this shit _so fucking much—_ but the reality is that running away is a shitty plan, because he knows _—_ he fucking _knows—_ it's damn near impossible to run away from himself.

When he reaches the stone steps out behind the restaurant, he has to stop because he's shaking and he needs something _—_ a cigarette or a drink or a punch to the face _—_ and doesn't think he can take another step without exploding. He settles for a nicotine fix, because that's what he's got on hand and he's not about to walk back inside and demand alcohol, but actually getting one proves difficult because he's having trouble getting his lighter started because his hands can't keep steady and _—_ and oh, _fuck this_.

He hurls the lighter halfway across the parking lot, but the satisfaction he gets when he hears it shatter against the pavement is short-lived because without it, he's royally fucked for a smoke.

Well, shit.

For a moment, he just kind of stares into the morning light, anger slowly fading. The sky is an impressive blue, clear and sharp and almost blinding after the dim haze of the _Dreadnaught_ , and he wonders idly if he should take the beautiful day as some kind of omen. A sign that good things are coming (for once). But he doesn't believe in that shit, it's fucking stupid _—_ so after a moment he shakes his head and sighs, deep and heavy and all-consuming.

This is going to be a long day.

This already _has been_ a long day. And it's not going to end any time soon.

Resigned, now _—_ and more than a little _exhausted—_ he starts making his way down the steps. Distractions aside, he's more than sure Zeff called ahead to Franky and Robin's place to let them know he'd be showing up soon, and if he doesn't get there eventually one or the other might call to see if he'd died in a car accident. A few steps out toward his car, however, he hears the building's back door open.

"Sanji!"

To his surprise, it's not Gin (although Gin wouldn't come running after him in the first place, really). Instead, when he turns around, Sanji sees Usopp standing at the top of the steps, looking wide-eyed and frazzled.

"Yes?" Sanji bites out a little harder than he intends to, and he almost winces at the tone of his own voice. Really, he has no reason to be angry at Usopp _—_ the guy had done nothing wrong. But he can't help but feel a sort of misplaced resentment toward him, maybe just because of what he represents.

Usopp, however, doesn't seem deterred by the venom. "Are you okay?"

It's a purely earnest question _—_ so startlingly genuine that Sanji can't do anything but blink at Usopp's concerned expression for a few seconds. Then, stiltedly, he nods. The unlit cigarette is still in his mouth, he realizes, and he sucks on it out of habit. The lack of smoke makes him choke a little, an odd sensation, like when a person leans forward in a car to counterbalance the expected momentum of its motion, only to find that the vehicle stays very much in place. "Mm fine," he mumbles, strained.

Usopp frowns in response. "I don't believe you."

"Well, that's not my problem, is it?"

Usopp tilts his head to the side slightly and crosses his arms. "No, I guess it isn't," he says casually after a moment, shrugging. Sanji isn't exactly sure how to respond to that, so he doesn't. Not directly, anyway.

Instead, he looks at Usopp _—really_ looks at him _—_ and is struck once again by the familiarity of his face, of his _goddamn hair_ , of his shoulders. And it's sort of irritating that he can't put a finger on where he's seen him before. He feels like he's missing something so incredibly obvious it could knock him out cold and he'd never be the wiser. A blow the side of the head from directly in front of him and _boom_ , there he goes. Goodbye world, goodbye Sanji.

Once again, though, nothing comes to mind, so without really thinking about the question (and still a little surprised that Usopp had come after him at all), he says, "Why am I supposed to know you?" without an ounce of remorse. It's already been made clear, he thinks, that he _doesn't_ , so at this point Usopp's feelings on the matter have been dealt with, and are largely irrelevant. (Probably.)

Again, however, Usopp just shrugs. "I'm in here every day, so I see you whenever you're around. I think you're the only other regular who comes even close to visiting as much as I do."

Sanji blinks, then blinks again. And oh. _Oh._ Oh _holy shit_.

Well that sort of makes sense.

And now, with that in mind, Sanji thinks hard about all the time he's spent in the _Dreadnaught_. More often than not he's furiously working in the kitchens, but every moment spent drowning himself in existential angst at the bar has been punctuated by the background image of Gin wandering around yelling at people and wild, ridiculous customers and _—_

_—_ and some guy sitting in the corner, hunched over his table. Never with food, just maybe a drink, working away at whatever is in front of him. Drawing, maybe, Sanji thinks now.

And on those days when he'd come to cook, too _—_ when he'd leave the kitchen for two minutes to deliver someone's meal on a short-staffed day, or when he'd left the kitchens for a drink or for a smoke. Or when he'd left the building altogether, sometimes through the front door instead of the back. That _guy_ is always there, blending in with the walls, observing and not and then observing again.

"Holy fuck," Sanji says.

And then Usopp looks at him like he's just grown seven arms, and he throws his head back, and he _laughs_. He laughs loud and low and _carefree_ , like Sanji has just told the best damn joke in the world. He laughs until he's gasping, clutching his sides, wheezing from the bottom of his chest. He laughs until Sanji starts to get annoyed, and when Sanji snaps _Oi!_ , he laughs some more.

It's like the chuckle he'd given when Sanji walked away the first time, only amplified, multiplied exponentially.

He laughs like the clear blue sky and the bright yellow sun. Like the breeze in the air, like the warmth from the pavement underfoot, and the distant sound of birds from the nearby shrubs. Like nothing Sanji's ever heard, he thinks _—_ different from the cursing construction workers at the _Dreadnaught_ center table or Gin's sardonic chuckles or Zeff's rough bellows that promise a slew of backhanded compliments, insults more than those, soon after he's calmed himself.

So when Usopp catches his breath and smiles at Sanji, all teeth and gleaming light, and asks, "So where are you going?" the only thing he can answer is a slightly confused:

"I have absolutely no idea anymore."

( _Blue skies, crushed gammarus lobster shells, borage, bluefish, indigo milk caps, blue sweet potatoes, concord grapes, lingcod, blueberries. Curaçao liquor_.)

 


	2. anger management is a big fucking lie

Sanji isn't entirely sure how Usopp ends up in the passenger seat of his car. One minute they're both standing out back of the Dreadnaught having a half-decent conversation, and the next Usopp is marching over to the only vehicle on the lot that isn't Gin's or (presumably) his own, both hands shoved in his pockets, still chuckling all the way. "Well, you're clearly in a hurry to get _somewhere_ ," he'd said, and, when Sanji had explained, Usopp had offered to tag along and help carry what he needed, or be company on the drive, or whatever. Even now, Sanji has no idea.

The morning sun flickers like strobes on steroids through the highway border bars, forcing  Sanji to squint as he drives. They're well out from the town by now, not exactly driving in silence because Usopp—apparently—likes the sound of his own voice and doesn't seem particularly bothered by the fact that their conversation is almost entirely one-sided. Both front windows are rolled halfway down to suck out the smoke as Sanji burns through cigarette after cigarette, and the rushing wind of their barely-legal speed does a nice job drowning out most of Usopp's words.

 As the surrealism of the whole situation starts to wear off, however, Sanji interrupts Usopp mid-sentence to ask, "Don't you think it's a little irresponsible to just... drive away with someone you don't know?" He's practically shouting over the white noise, but the question doesn't come out angry, really—just sort of confused.

Maybe a little miffed at being cut off, Usopp gives him a strange look—one that Sanji can feel more than see in his peripheral vision—and then he laughs again for what feels like the thirtieth time this morning. "You're asking me that _now_ , half an hour after we left?"

Sanji doesn't take his eyes off the road. "Yes."

He hears Usopp snort, and Sanji tries to tap the ash from his cigarette out the open window so his suit can stay relatively clean for the ladies at Franky's place. _Tries to_ , of course, being the operative phrase. Frustration bubbles up unbidden in his throat and he flicks it too hard, inadvertently sending the fairly-new Marlboro flying into the grass of the interstate median. Just as he spits out a rough _fuck_ , Usopp answers his question.

"Well, you're not really a _stranger_ , you know. I think I would have noticed by now if you were kidnapping pretty girls or something. Like, if you were a serial killer. And I guess even then I wouldn't be in any danger, because I'm not all that much to look at, and last time I checked I was still digging the whole _being a dude_ thing, so there's that going for me, too. As for being irresponsible about it—I honestly don't have a good response, because anything I could come up with would make me sound like a nutcase."

" _That's_ comforting," Sanji mumbles sarcastically, fishing for a cigarette to replace the one tragically lost to the highway. The pack resting against the gear shift is almost empty, unfortunately, and he can only pray that the collection of opened boxes scattered in various places around the car (the glove compartment, the left rear door cup holder, under the passenger seat, the maintenance pocket in the trunk, and probably a few other spots he can't remember) aren't similarly hopeless. His wallet is... somewhere, maybe his jacket pocket, and he doesn't really want to make a stop along the way with this random guy in his car, anyway.

As he lights one of the few remaining cigarettes with one hand on the wheel, the other on his lighter in a quick, practiced motion, Usopp leans back in his seat, resting both feet against the glove compartment. He's taken off his boots, apparently—something Sanji must have missed in his strange sort of stupor—and Sanji can see the vibrancy of mismatched, colorful socks in the corner of his vision. He blows smoke in his direction out of mild annoyance, but doesn't comment.

In return, Usopp waves a hand to clear the air and shoots Sanji a muted scowl. He doesn't move his legs, though—instead, he huffs, "Well, what does that say about you, then? You just let _me_ get in _your_ car."

It's Sanji's turn to rolls his eyes, then, and he does so with a light shrug. "I have little to no regard for my own wellbeing, so whether or not you were or are a dangerous person is totally irrelevant to me," he deadpans.

There's a short pause, and Sanji can feel Usopp staring at him, suspicious gaze boring into the side of his head. "I can't tell if you're messing me with me or not." He doesn't sound particularly bothered, though—just sort of amused.

Sanji doesn't confirm or deny it, either, and instead just hums. "Although," he says after a moment of thought, "if you _are_ , I'll kick your ass into next week."

That gets another chuckle from Usopp, who nods. "Noted."

Sanji doesn't make any more attempts at conversation, so after a while Usopp resumes whatever story he'd initially interrupted. It's something about flowers, maybe—or paints. Sanji isn't exactly sure, because now that he's not really paying attention Usopp's voice is harder to hear over the rushing wind through the open windows. He's probably being rude—well, actually, he's _definitely_ being rude—but Usopp had invited himself along, so just letting him into the car was enough courtesy for Sanji. Anything after that (like listening to what he has to say) is just extra, and Sanji isn't about to go above and beyond the call of basic human decency for some guy.

He doesn't even realize Usopp has finished speaking (or gotten bored or picked on the fact that Sanji doesn't give two shits) until the sound of soft acoustic music floats up through the car speakers, muted in the same way Usopp's voice had been. When he glances over, Usopp has fished a rarely-used AUX cord out of the glove box (his feet are up on the dashboard, now) and connected it to his phone, all without asking. Sanji kind of wants to bite his head off for that—and also for blocking the windshield with his stupid socks—but instead he just sucks harder on his cigarette and tries to focus on the road.

Even as the highway border bars and bright green pastures (they're far away from the small East Blue town limits, now) and odd tree patches flash by, the sky seems like it's standing completely still. It's still startlingly clear—empty, almost—and without clouds to track their course or to move themselves, it's just this huge, blank, baby blue void. (The heavens are made of raw lingcod today, the purest cut—no bones or skin or blood. Just plain, filleted fish flesh.) On a whim, Sanji rolls up the driver's side window and blows out an impressive puff of smoke—a breath so deep and sharp it fills up his lungs and almost makes him choke before he blows it out—that almost completely obscures the front windshield. There are the clouds, then. Thick, gray-white, stormy clouds. The passenger window is still open so the illusion doesn't last long, but it's enough.

( _Gray-white smoke, bleached sugar, minced garlic, cleaned cauliflower flourettes, skinned Jerusalem artichokes, warm milk and heavy cream, pan-seared halibut. Rum Chata._ )

One small eternity later, Usopp is dozing, snoring lightly over the oddly-peaceful clash of wind and music, and Sanji has slowed the car down considerably to pull from the interstate and turn onto a gravel side road. There are no immediate markings around the turn off, but two-hundred feet up into the field-lined path is a sort of wooden archway. It's slapdash but somehow sturdy, supporting massive metal letters soldered together to read _Thousand Sunny Farms_ in a rough, jagged sans-serif script.

The jerky movements of the car on the gravel and the crunching sounds of stone-under-wheels jolt Usopp awake, his snores cutting off with a quick, indignant sort of whine, and Sanji rolls both front windows all the way down because there's no highway pressure to worry about anymore. It's a nice day—warm, with a light breeze—and it's quiet out here in the middle of nowhere. Usopp's music is clearer now, the only real sound aside from what might be birds in the distance and Usopp's own incensed huffs.

They drive along for a few more moments before they pass through one last row of deciduous woods and the scenery changes, grassy plains blooming into neat rows of vegetable sprouts sectioned off in hand-built wooden pens, colorful flowers, and a few small, scattered fruit orchards only fifteen or twenty trees strong. The whole place is lined on all sides by forest—the same one they'd driven through along the path—effectively cutting the natural oasis off from the rest of the world. At the center of it all stands a small, two-story house, painted a plethora of clashing colors from the roof to the trim to the walls to the door to the window frames, along with a smaller building attached to the side. Even the loin-or-sunflower-Sanji-has-no-idea mailbox is wild, an almost-art piece in and of itself, sitting perched at the end of the path like some benevolent guardian god.

A woman with long black hair pulled back in a pony-tail emerges from one of the massive flower beds as Sanji pulls the car to a stop in front of the house, previously hidden in a crouch by the plants. Her floppy sunhat is decorated with ribbons just as colorful as the rest of the place, and there's dirt all the way up her arms, rendering her purple gardening gloves almost completely useless. She waves, and Sanji waves back, practically leaping out of the car without a word to Usopp, who—for the most part—is staring around him in a sort of hushed awe.

"Miss Robin! Oh, it's absolutely _lovely_ to see you!"

Robin chuckles lightly in response as she carefully picks her way through the flowers, brushing dirt on the front of her already-soiled, ankle-length skirt along the way. "Likewise, as always," she hums. "Franky informed me of your impending arrival several hours ago, and we were beginning to worry you'd run into trouble."

As soon as she steps over the short fence and onto the path, Sanji is in front of her, bending low on one knee to take one of her gloved hands in his. "Nothing could possibly stop me from coming to see you, my lovely lady, although I'm flattered at your concern," he says with a flourish of his free hand, voice as low and sultry as he can possibly manage. Robin chuckles again with a small, amused smile, and after a moment Sanji hears Usopp snort loudly from the direction of the car. When he turns around, he sees the guy has his boots back on and is leaning against the closed driver's side door, arms crossed, halfway through rolling his eyes.

He feels Robin stiffen ever so slightly, but she slides her hand out from his so soon after he wonders if he'd imagined it. When he glances back at her, she has a soft smile on her face, and is looking past Sanji to carefully study Usopp with a sort of curious look in her eyes. "You so rarely bring guests, Sanji. Would you mind introducing me?" she hums, peering back down at him with one eyebrow raised.

Sanji sighs, doing his best not to blow smoke into the air around her, and stands again, shoving both hands in his pockets. "This is some shithead who's made it his mission to stalk me," he grumbles, waving a hand behind him. Then he turns to Usopp and says, "Shithead—this," he gently gestures to Robin, "is the beautiful and talented Miss Robin."

Robin steps forward toward Usopp as he raises his eyebrows, too, pushing off from the car. As Robin slips off one of her gloves to extend a hand, he says, "Are you two...?" and Robin genuinely laughs, shaking her head slightly.

"No, no," she says, not even trying to hide her amusement at the thought (something Sanji takes some sort of mild internal offense to). "My husband and I own the place. As kind as Sanji is, he's a bit too—"

Suddenly, there's a kind of mechanical roaring from the woods, like the sound of some great metal beast rapidly approaching. Within seconds, there's a loud crash, followed by a gleeful shout of, " _Bro!_ You finally made it!" as a large, well-built man with wild, blue-dyed hair bursts through the trees on an ATV painted with flames. He's shirtless, wearing only a pair of torn red cargo pants, racing goggles, and black leather gloves, standing halfway in his seat with one hand waving frantically in the air.

Sanji huffs and sees Usopp jump, startled, in his peripheral vision, as Robin covers a grin with her ungloved hand. "Ah, speak of the devil," she laughs.

Usopp looks torn between running away and _shrieking_ as Franky tears along the path between a flower bed and a garden of carrot plants, screeching to a halt just by Sanji's car. Before the ATV is even fully stopped, he's already leaping off, landing lightly on the gravel with his bare feet. At the sight, Usopp flinches a little, but Franky doesn't look the least bit fazed. Only then does Sanji notice a smaller figure—a kid—perched on the back of the four-wheeled death trap, clinging to the cargo bar for dear life.

As soon as Franky sticks the landing, the kid is left alone on the still-running off-road monstrosity as it rolls a foot more before stopping on its own, and the moment it does a high-pitched wail sounds up over the screaming engine. "You _jerk!_ Don't leave me up here alone! I thought I was gonna _die!_ " It's not a particularly fearful cry, though—no, the brat just sounds royally _pissed off_.

Robin sighs, breaking the kind of dumbstruck stupor they'd all fallen into at the sight of Franky's extravagantly stupid entrance, and begins making her way over to the new arrivals, patting Franky lightly on one broad forearm as she passes. "I've told you several times now not to ride like that with Chopper, dear," she hums, a small smile on her face that somehow looks more menacing than even the most fearsome glare. At her touch, Franky's expression flicks from an ecstatic grin to thoroughly pouting in an instant, as transparent as a puppy who's just been scolded for tearing up the couch.

(And rightfully so, Sanji thinks. Because the kid is still yelling incoherently, caught between ranting and crying, but he hasn't budged an inch.)

"He said it was okay..." Franky mumbles, glancing back toward the ATV, clearly not even convinced by his own statement at the sight of the brat fuming behind him. Asshole.

 Robin just ignores him and keeps walking, carefully prying the little boy's fingers from the bar and lifting him up to balance Chopper on her hip. As soon as he's in her arms, he stops yelling, but he's shaking, Sanji sees—pink baseball cap pushed so far down on his shaggy, sand-colored hair that it's practically covering his eyes, clinging to Robin's shirt for dear life the moment his hands touch the fabric. Chopper's a small kid—underweight and of below average height for his age—and Sanji can't help but want to sit the brat down in front of a huge meal. But he knows food won't help—it's just the way Chopper is. He'd asked about it once, asked if Chopper was okay, but Robin and Franky had just exchanged a look and thanked him for his concern.

It's not really any of his business, anyway.

Robin sighs again, brushing some of the kid's hair out of his face—but not enough to uncover his eyes—and adjusting her grip. (Sanji ignores the irrational spike of jealousy that bubbles up at her tender touch, half wishing she would direct it on him, and glares at Franky instead. He'd rather be pissed at that fucking brute instead of the brat.)

"He's _twelve_ , Franky. He's not going to tell _you_ no," she says, shooting him a dirty look—one that says _if I wasn't holding a child right now you'd be in serious physical pain_ —and if possible Franky curls in on himself even more.

Chopper, somewhat calmed now that Robin has him held tight, shakes his head very seriously, getting Robin's attention once again. His voice, however, (high-pitched and rapid-fire and still shaking, just a little) breaks the illusion of angry bravado he's trying to put up for her. "He wouldn't let me get my helmet. He said _it's not that far, we'll be fine_ , and started moving and even though I'm totally fine—I wasn't scared or anything, really, I wasn't—that was _really_ irresponsible on his part and I think he shouldn't be allowed to drive anymore. Ever."

Robin smiles softly. "Of course," she says, pausing just in front of Sanji as Usopp watches on. "Guess who came to visit today?"

Chopper frowns for a moment, stilling, and then he cocks his head to the side, sniffing the air a bit and reaching out toward the cook. Sanji goes perfectly stiff, too—he knows what's coming. After a moment, the brat breaks into a wide grin. "Sanji?"

"Bingo, kid."

" _Sanji!_ " Chopper pats Robin's shoulder a few times, quick and urgent, upper body still turned toward and beaming in Sanji's direction. He looks so fucking _happy_ , a complete flip, effectively distracted from the aftermath of Franky's irresponsible parenting, and Robin chuckles a little as she sets him down on the ground. He doesn't move forward immediately—he pauses as soon as his feet touch the gravel, tilting his head again, as Robin waves a hand behind her in Franky's direction. Chopper doesn't stop talking, though—he keeps chattering on even as he listens to the world around him, saying, "I knew it! _Nobody_ else around here smokes 'cause Robin made Franky quit but _you_ do and you're _here!_ " without so much as pause for breath.

Franky, still sulking somewhat but—Sanji thinks—glad that Robin isn't glaring at him anymore, not-quite-runs-not-quite-hops-but-not-quite-walks-either back to the ATV and unhooks a small white cane from the back bar, bouncing back toward his wife and kid as soon as it's in his hand. It gets passed to Robin, then to Chopper, and the moment he has it Chopper starts moving—pushing it along in front of him for a few feet before he stops again.

(Sanji glances in Usopp's direction for a moment, almost forgetting the guy is still here, and sees he's frozen, watching Chopper with a sort of curious expression on his face. He doesn't look particularly bothered, though—just surprised, maybe? Sanji isn't really sure, and he doesn't particularly care, either. As long as the fucker doesn't make any shitty comments, it's fine, he thinks.)

Blowing out one last puff of smoke, Sanji sighs (louder than usual) before stubbing his half-used cigarette out on the dirt. Robin has made it _very_ clear in the past that there is _no_ smoking around Chopper, and, as irritating as it is to waste a decent smoke, Sanji isn't about to get on her bad side. The noise is enough to gently remind Chopper of where he is, too, and the brat beelines right for him, stopping the moment his cane hits Sanji's right shoe. "Oi, don't scuff 'em," the cook bites out, but he crouches down anyway when Chopper smacks his shin with the cane as some kind of answer.

 As soon as they're mostly face-to-face, Chopper reaches out with his free hand to grab onto Sanji's sleeve, yanking on it and not letting go even when he's thoroughly captured every ounce of Sanji's undivided attention. "You're here to get stuff, right? Do you want to see my peas? They're almost ready, and you can take some if you want," he says, excited and urgent all at once. Sanji can't help it—he cracks a small smile—and almost immediately he hears Usopp snort. He shoots a muted glare in the guy's direction, but the damage is already done, and covering the whole thing up with one exaggerated eye roll doesn't seem to help one bit, judging my Usopp's clearly amused expression.

At the sound, however, Chopper tilts his head to the side again, turning one ear in Usopp's direction, and then he reaches up to jerk Sanji's bangs with a sharp tug. "Fu-eck!" _Family friendly_ , Sanji reminds himself absently. _Gotta keep it family friendly_. His slip-up doesn't go unnoticed, however, and Usopp stifles a giggle when Chopper pulls again, harder this time. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Robin glaring. Wonderful.

Chopper grabs his attention again before he can apologize, indignantly whining, "You jerk, you didn't tell me there was someone else here!" as Sanji pries the little fingers out of his hair.

As soon as he's free, he huffs, a little tired of introducing Usopp to people he'll probably never meet again, and says, "He's not important."

Usopp makes a sort of indignant noise as Chopper smacks him with his cane again, puffing out his little chest in annoyance. "That's _mean_ , Sanji" he chides, like he's reprimanding a child, and Franky—back to his usual thousand-kilowatt mood now that Robin is leaning against his side—erupts into laughter.

"Harsh, bro."

Sanji just glares at everyone, Usopp included, and huffs. "Chopper, this is my stalker. Stalker, this is Chopper."

Usopp groans as Chopper frowns, a little _too_ trusting to tell whether or not he's being serious, Sanji thinks, and Sanji almost (but not quite) feels like an ass. Before Chopper can comment, though, Usopp throws his hands up. " _Please_ stop introducing me like that. I'm not _that_ bad," he practically wails, and Sanji snorts, which must assure Chopper that it's all some big joke (sort of) because he relaxes slightly.

Robin lets out another chuckle, too, but when Sanji glances over in her direction he sees that she's watching Usopp again—studying him, almost, and that puts the cook a little bit on edge. She's always been hard to read, but her expression now seems particularly unusual. She turns to look at him, then, and raises an eyebrow, catching his stare. "Yes, please do introduce us to your companion properly. A new employee of yours, perhaps?" she asks, bemused, and Sanji temporarily forgoes confusion in favor of embarrassment.

He shakes his head, scowling. "No, I met him—" he falters, then, suddenly realizing how terrible _I met him at a bar_ sounds. "He's here to help me haul shi—crap back to the Baratie." Better, maybe, even if it's not entirely the truth. "Usopp, everyone. Everyone, Usopp."

Franky bellows with laughter when Usopp groans again, and then he gently nudges Robin off his side to approach the guy with one hand extended. "Nice to meet ya, bro," he beams, either ignoring or just plain not noticing how Usopp winces under his firm grip. "Name's Franky."

"Nice to meet you!" Usopp replies, laughing a little. It sounds sort of uncomfortable to Sanji, but he can't really be sure.

Clearly annoyed at being left out of the conversation, Chopper turns around, pushing his white cane out in front of him as he makes his way over toward Usopp who, for his part, hasn't moved much more than to crouch down slightly, and is watching Chopper with a smile of his own now that Franky has set him free. When Chopper starts to slow down a little, Franky hums a little, still standing near the guy, and within seconds Chopper is in front of them both.

"I'm Chopper!" he giggles, nudging one of Usopp's boots lightly with the tip of his cane. Now that the kid is gone, Sanji stands, instinctively digging through his pocket for a fresh cigarette before catching a pointed look from Robin. Right, right; his pack is still in the car, anyway, so even if he were allowed to smoke, he can't. Instead, he fishes out his phone to check the time, and—well, shit.

Usopp, meanwhile, is nodding vehemently at Chopper, who has started asking rapid-fire questions about whether he's here because he likes to cook or because he likes plants (" _Plants, definitely! I can't cook at all._ ") and if he smokes, too (" _No, that's Sanji's fault—he was smoking the whole way here._ ") and why he smells like cookies if he doesn't cook (" _Sometimes I mix vanilla with my paint so it doesn't reek so bad. Neat, huh?_ "). The realization that Usopp is an artist sets Chopper off again, even more excited, and the guy just grins more and more with each answer, wide enough that the feel of it carries into his voice.

He doesn't seem the least bit fazed by Chopper, Sanji thinks with some unbidden note of relief. Instead, he's just taking it all in stride. Robin and Franky exchange smiles, and seeing the brat so damn happy at having someone new to talk to almost has Sanji thinking it was worth it to let Usopp get into his car. Almost.

Sanji glances down at his phone again and sighs, waving a little to get Franky's attention as Usopp and Chopper chat on. "I've got a whole list of stuff I need to load up, and I don't know how long it's going to take. And since it's Sunday, I'd like to get back as soon as possible," he calls, nodding toward the fields. Now, at least. Earlier, it hadn't been as much of a priority, but one is rapidly approaching and he's already really fucking late. If Zeff doesn't kill him now, he certainly will if he's much longer getting back.

Franky nods, suddenly serious in that way Sanji has come to associate with work, and crosses his arms. "Sure, yeah. It's your weird French hell day, right? You got your book with ya?"

"Mhmm," Sanji hums in return, already making his way to the passenger side of his car. He nods absently, mumbling, " _Le jour du l'enfer. Le début d'une autre semaine, sept autres jours chaotiques ponctué chaque soir par une profonde souffrance, tout pour le bien du devoir et de l'amour et de la nourriture. Toujours la nourriture,_ " quietly along the way, a soft, slow, poetic mantra more for himself than anyone else gathered around.

God, he wants a cigarette—it's been less than ten minutes and he's already getting antsy, focus shifted from the tiny light of the farm back to the Baratie, and without meaning to he scowls, running one hand through his hair and tugging harder on the strands than he probably should.

The notebook is in the glove compartment, shuffled under a few things after Usopp had dug around for the AUX chord, and Sanji grabs it along with a pencil and the Marlboros by the gear shift. By the time he makes his way back to the other side of the car, Chopper is back in Robin's arms and Usopp is leaning against the driver's side door again, watching him curiously.

"I didn't know you spoke French. I guess that explains the accent, though," he says, and Sanji just shrugs in response, suddenly irritated. It's a simple statement, but it carries the implication that Usopp knows _anything_ about Sanji at all, and he doesn't—he fucking doesn't. The bastard _thinks_ he does just because he's seen him in the Dreadnaught a few times, but he _doesn't know shit_. Instead of biting his head off, though, and saying all the things he wishes he could, Sanji flips through the pages of his book until he gets to the list he'd made this morning and keeps walking toward Franky. He doesn't bother glancing up to see how Usopp reacts to the clear snub.

Robin, however, _does_ notice, and she makes a kind of disapproving hum as Sanji passes. His first instinct is to profusely apologize—not to Usopp, of course, but to her—but then suddenly Chopper is reaching out to snag his sleeve again and he doesn't get the chance.

"Sanji!" He calls as soon as he's got a grip on the fabric. It's in that same urgent tone, the one that demands attention and dares the cook to ignore him. Not that Sanji ever could—of anyone in the world, Chopper is probably the one person he'll stop everything he's doing to tend to. The shitty kid has him wrapped around his damn little fingers, and as much as he'll fight (and fail miserably) to hide it Sanji's well aware of that fact.

He pauses obediently, smiling a little sheepishly now that he's right in front of Robin and can see her dissatisfied frown in full force, and says, "Yes?"

Chopper releases him as soon as he's sure he has Sanji's focus, and leans back into Robin's grip. "Sanji, I'm going to go inside for a little bit while you and Franky and Usopp and Nami get your things, but you _have_ to come see my peas when you're done."

Sanji nods instinctively, humming in affirmation, and says, "Of course I will," in a very serious tone. Because Chopper's pea plants are a very serious matter, and Chopper makes a very serious face right back.

Satisfied, Chopper solemnly replies, "Good," and then taps Robin's shoulder as if to tell her _My business here is done, let's go_. Robin's frown softens just a little at the exchange, and as she turns back to the house (with a pointed look Sanji's way just before she goes), he can hear her chuckling.

* * *

 

The _Thousand Sunny_ is a relatively small establishment compared to other farms in the area—or other farms in general, really. It's only seventy-five acres in total, Sanji thinks (he'd asked once, out of curiosity, but that was years ago) and fifteen or so acres of that are occupied by sparsely-maintained forests. The limited space leaves little room for large plots of plants and crops, and unlike an average commercial farm, the _Thousand Sunny_ 's fields house dozens of different fruits, vegetables, and flowers, and the produce changes with each season. But the limited profitable surplus seems to suit the business just fine, really—and Franky and Robin aren't in the business for _business_ , per se, anyway. No, the whole place has one purpose and one purpose alone: to supply fresh ingredients for the Baratie.

Sanji isn't sure exactly what kind of deal Zeff struck up with Franky and the old owner (Tom, maybe? Sanji can't really remember his name) more than two decades ago, long before he or Robin or anyone else active in the place ever came on the scene, but the arrangement works in both of their favors. The restaurant gets the highest quality ingredients possible for its high class customers, Sanji has the freedom to do what he wants (experiment, give people his best work, and experiment some more), and the little family-owned farm maintains a steady cash flow without the pressure of a large consumer base.

Through the woods behind the main field—the one with Franky and Robin and Chopper's cottage, with the little tree orchards and the flowers and the fourteen vegetable plots—is a second clearing, smaller than the first. It backs up to the neighboring farm's land, cut off by a two-slat, handmade wooden fence instead of the tree line, and unlike the first field this one is just _green_. Because it's not really a garden—it's a pasture. Short cut grass and weeds for acres, broken only by the occasional spot of black or white or red from the farm's cattle (a bull and cow, Sodom and Gomorrah; seven chickens affectionately called the Super Squad; one particularly ornery  goat, Eyelashes; Chou Chou the sheep dog; and the resident pig-shaped garbage disposal, Buhichuck) and their pens, and a brightly-painted barn smack in the middle of it all.

Franky offers a ride on the ATV from the main field to the back pasture, but for once Sanji and Usopp are in agreement and politely decline. The walk isn't long, and doing so gives Sanji and Franky the opportunity to talk about harvest quantities and what the Baratie will need for the week while Usopp trails a few steps behind, likely staring around in wonder based on the sort of muffled _ooh_ s and _oh wow_ s Sanji can hear every three or four minutes. His reaction to it all surprises Sanji, just a little, because he himself has seen it all before—hundreds of times.

 The idea that a place like this—a vibrant place so full of life, quiet and isolated from the rest of the world—might be something _new_ and _exciting_ hadn't occurred to him. He finds himself wondering, then, where Usopp is from, wondering about who Usopp _is_ , but as soon as the thought pops up he beats it down with a kind of internal rage because he _doesn't_ care. He _doesn't_. This guy is just some asshole who decided to bust into Sanji's life without permission, some shitty bastard who thinks he has any idea about _anything_. And suddenly Usopp's delighted exclamations are like sharp feedback screams through a speaker, like the yowls of a fox at three in the morning, like someone putting the dishes away too loudly in an otherwise-peaceful apartment.

Now that Chopper isn't around, too, Sanji's well through his third cigarette. He doesn't normally smoke on farm itself—only near the driveway—because Franky doesn't tolerate littering on his property, but he's so on edge he doesn't even care that he's piling up a decent collection of disgusting, ashy filters in the pocket of his slacks (or that his dry-cleaning lady will most likely murder him for it). Franky keeps shooting mildly concerned looks his way but doesn't comment, and for that Sanji is grateful.

Nami is on the roof of the barn when they find her, adjusting the frame of her homemade hygrometer (maybe, at least, Sanji thinks—he doesn't know which of her _amazing_ contraptions are which, really, because the whole thing goes right over his head). She's surrounded by more than half a dozen makeshift instruments, her own personal weather station, and as soon as she spots the boys she waves, a pair of pliers in hand. Franky shouts up a greeting in response, but he's drowned out almost immediately by Sanji, who dashes over to the base of the ladder leaning up against the barn wall, yelling, "Oh, Miss Nami! Miss Nami, you look absolutely _stunning_ when you work. How do things look today? Are you alright up there?" as all traces of annoyance and anger drain from his system in an instant. Outwardly, at least—it would be rude, he think, to act like a prick in front of a lady.

He's too far away to be sure, but he knows Nami well enough to feel the eye roll she gives in response as Franky and Usopp catch up. Instead of acknowledging Sanji more than that, she leans a little farther over the side and calls, "I'm just about done up here, so I'll send down your stuff in a second, Franky!"

He flashes her a thumbs up, beaming. "Super! I'm glad everything worked out! You got it all patched up?"

"Yeah, the wind must have torn the hair, so that's why the readings were all screwy. I used some of the Plexiglas left over from the other day to reinforce the cover," she shouts back, before moving out of Sanji's line of sight to finish whatever she's working on. The three on the ground stand around awkwardly for a moment, waiting, while Usopp glances around at the animals and Sanji stubs out another cigarette butt on the heel of his shoe.

When Nami finally calls out again, yelling something about an incoming toolbox, Sanji barely has time to react before a blue metal case is lowered (faster than it probably should be, he thinks) by a rope tied to the handle. Franky grabs it easily and yanks the rest of the rope down before moving to steady the ladder, box still in hand. She descends with relative ease, and Sanji notes with some hint of internal dismay that she's wearing shorts today—not a skirt. (Although they're nice and tight— _nice_ and tight—and he still gets a good view of her ass on the way down.)

(And he ignores the disgusted look Usopp gives him, too.)

As soon as Nami's feet touch the grass, she stretches a little, cracking her back, and then marches up to Sanji and punches him lightly in the chest. The force of the blow isn't enough to hurt, but it shakes some of the ash off his cigarette onto her hand and she hisses. Sanji jerks back, but she presses forward, holding her hand out, palm up, not the least bit deterred or angry. Instead, she looks smug—really fucking smug—and Sanji huffs.

Nami wiggles her fingers a bit in response and says, "Come on, you creep. Nothing in this world is free. Fork it over," leaning in just far enough for Sanji to see _directly_ down her shirt. He doesn't even try to hide the direction his gaze trails, and Nami punches him again with her other hand, this time on his arm. "That's double."

With a resigned sigh (that doesn't sound particularly remorseful), Sanji reaches into his suit jacket pocket to dig out his wallet as Franky crosses his arms and shakes his head at Usopp, who's expression is now some combination of appalled _and_ confused. And when Sanji (gently, of course) slaps forty dollars into Nami's outstretched hand, he physically blanches. Nami, however, just pockets the  cash and pats Sanji's shoulder before moving toward Franky, jerking a thumb over her shoulder as soon as her back is turned.

Franky nods at the unspoken question. "Yup, we've got work to do. Green and orange, he said. How are the fruit tree harvests looking?"

She hums for a moment, putting her hands in her back pockets to counterbalance her weight when she leans back slightly, and says, "The grapefruits and oranges should be good to go—I pulled down a bunch of ripe ones yesterday. I think we've got plenty of clementines, too. Not sure about the lemons and tangerines, though; they might need a little more time." Then she leans forward, zeroing in on Usopp, and her tone sharpens. " _You_."

Sanji can practically see the color drain out of his face as he goes totally stiff, eyes wide and surprised and fearful. "M-Me?"

Nami just crosses her arms. "Do I have to charge you, too?"

Immediately, Usopp shakes his head wildly, hair frizzing out in that same panicked way it had at Gin's bar earlier in the morning as he stutters out, "N-No, I swear—I didn't—I wouldn't—"

Franky bursts out laughing, startling Usopp a second time and actually making him jump, and then Nami is laughing, too—throwing her head back and tossing her long, orange hair with it. Franky comes to Usopp's rescue and claps him hard on the back, saying, "No worries, sis—he was glarin' at the cook the whole time," as Nami gets her giggles under control.

"Alright, alright," she chuckles, waving him off. Then she steps right up to Usopp (who still looks slightly shaken). "I'm Nami, I help out here most days. Since you're not one of ours, I'm guessing you're one of his—" she gestures toward Sanji, then, "—and at that all I can say is _sucks to be you_. It'll be nice to have an extra set of arms, though." She laughs again as Usopp shakes her hand.

As soon as proper introductions have been made (this time without Sanji's scathing contributions), Nami turns toward the forest edge and starts walking, leaving the others no choice to follow if they don't want to be left behind. Sanji skips ahead to hop along beside her, not bothered by the fact that he's completely ignored, and when Franky catches up he gives her a quick recap of what needs to be done. Usopp, once again, is left at the rear—not that Sanji gives two shits either way. The guy hasn't shown any interest in the beautiful Miss Nami, and Sanji's still thoroughly irked at him, so as long as Usopp pays back the inconvenience of following him here by hauling crap he can sulk as much as he damn well pleases.

They make it back to the main fields in record time, comparatively, and Nami beelines for the small building attached to the small family's house.

The postharvest storage warehouse is a single-room, open space area with concrete floors and white walls barely seen past the stacks of wooden crates and boxes piled up nearly Sanji's height. Franky's expertly designed do-it-yourself force-air cooling system lines the space just at near the ceiling, a set of massive fans and insulating material to keep the place at a consistently-circulating fifty-five degrees, and even though he's wearing a long-sleeved shirt Usopp shivers as soon as the cool air hits him. The others, however, take it all in stride—they've done this a hundred times before, and know they won't be cold for long.

The whole place is set up in a grid pattern, different kinds of fruits and vegetables sectioned off in rows and columns based on a series of letters and numbers labeled on the floor. Even in the dim lighting, it's easy to see that everything is well-loved and cheery, with fresh, brightly-colored produce peeking out from the holes in their boxes and neon stripes painted along the concrete. As predicted, most of what's there is on the green and orange ends of the spectrum, with the occasional splash of brown (potatoes), white (cauliflower), and red (rhubarb, radishes, and strawberries). The color scheme reminds Sanji of the pasture they'd all just come from—it's almost identical, in some strange, mismatched way—with the green grass, the red barn, the white animals, the brown dirt, and the orange in Nami's hair.

( _Orange hair and orange fruit, butternut squash, peeled carrots, roasted pumpkin seeds, bell peppers, sweet potato flesh, gelatinized apricot, ripe peaches and guava juice and cantaloupe guts. Bulleit bourbon.)_

Sanji's notebook gets passed to Nami as he sheds his suit jacket and drapes it across one of the crates, and almost immediately she starts mumbling about produce prices and row numbers. By the time the sleeves of Sanji's dress shirt are rolled up to his elbows—so he has more range of motion to carry things—she's already calling out grid locations. He and Franky move to follow orders, but Usopp lags behind, looking a little lost, and Sanji shoots him an annoyed look as he passes with a box of citrus fruits in his arms.

"You came to help, yeah? So help," he growls a little harsher than he probably should, and Usopp kind of glares back. Sanji leaves the building—saunters right back out into the sunny goddamn day—before he can respond, though, and that's it.

By the time he finishes loading up the crate into the trunk of his car, Usopp is halfway from the storage building with his own box, and they walk right by each other without a single word. The lack of conversation between them (and between anyone else, really, as soon as Nami and Franky pick up on the tension) means the work flies by quickly, with no distractions to take time from the pick-up itself. It also does absolutely nothing to lighten Sanji's mood.

Half an hour later, everything is so snugly piled up that Sanji couldn't see out of his car's rear window even if he wanted to. Almost three dozen boxes, each housing some variety of fresh food, have the car smelling more like a street market than a dingy cigar bar for the first time in years, maybe, (or at least since Sanji last visited the farm), and as soon as the back door is closed the cook blows Nami a kiss, waves a thank you to Franky, and hops into the driver's seat. Transactions between Franky and the Baratie work on a tab system, so as long as Nami knows how much he'd taken, she and Zeff will work out the rest at the end of the week.

The key is already in the ignition when Usopp slides into the passenger seat, scowling hard, and Sanji kind of wishes he could just leave the asshole behind. Because now, he's stuck with this fuming shithead either all the way back to the bar, or for the rest of the day at the Baratie, depending on where he ends up. It's fucking _late_ , now—almost two—and considering the fact that he'd left around nine am, Zeff will want him at the restaurant as soon as possible to (most likely) beat the shit out of.

Their exit, unfortunately, is rather anticlimactic, only marked somewhat eventful by the fact that halfway down the gravel road, Franky starts running after them, shouting something that Sanji mostly ignores because he's used to Franky's antics and he has places to be, anyway. This time, Usopp doesn't try to hijack the AUX chord, instead choosing to sulk rather impressively in silence while Sanji smokes and drives and smokes some more. It would be peaceful, Sanji thinks, if the guy wasn't so outwardly radiating some weird combination of hurt and disgust that he doesn't quite understand—and being so damn _obvious_ about it.

Usopp is a grown man, but he's got his legs curled up against his chest, boots off once again and socked feet resting on the seat itself like petulant child. His arms are crossed over the top of his knees with his chin resting across the whole pile of limbs, wild, dark hair framing the picture and hiding most of his face. The curve of his back and the pressure on his sleeves is pulling the fabric of his loose shirt tighter around his body, too, and for the first time Sanji notices that the guy isn't actually as skinny as he'd first thought. His baggy clothes had given off the illusion of someone slowly drowning in his own wardrobe, but now he can see that Usopp is decently-built, with defined arm muscles and a wide back.

For some reason, that makes him even angrier.

Sanji flicks the filter of yet another cigarette out the half-opened car window and growls to himself as he fumbles for a new one, inadvertently stepping harder on the gas pedal as he does. Now that he's not walking around—not hauling things or talking to people or putting on a good face for Franky's beautiful women—his frustration has nowhere to go and he feels trapped, like he's going to explode. It's the same feeling he'd had Tuesday night at the bar, arguing with Gin about a five minute break, but this time he can't just fucking _leave_.

So he chooses his target without much thought—because there's no one else to yell at, really—and bites out, "What the fuck is _your_ problem?" sharply and suddenly in the mostly-quiet car. Usopp jumps a little, whipping his head around to glare at Sanji, and Sanji glares right back for a second before turning back toward the road ahead.

After a beat of silence, Usopp replies, "You're an asshole," with a kind of stinging venom, more disappointed than strictly angry.

Sanji snorts, but there's no humor in the sound. " _I'm_ the asshole? _You're_ the one who followed me here! The fuck did you even expect to happen when you did that?"

"I don't really _know_ , okay?" Usopp's voice shoots up half an octave, then, and he lifts his head to wave his hands around a little in the cramped space of the car. "I thought it was all—I see you _all the time_ , like, we've been in the same place at the same time over and over again for _months and months_ , and you kind of have this weird—I don't know—I thought it was like this _cool and aloof_ thing you had going on—"

" _Cool_ and _aloof_? Are you fucking serious?"

"—but when we talked last week you were—like, you looked like you were dying, but—"

Sanji blinks, still pissed but momentarily distracted by this new revelation. Or not new, really—at this point he's well aware that he's run across Usopp several times before, he thinks, and the guy had even mentioned that they'd talked once. But Sanji had just been under the impression that whatever earth-shattering conversation they'd had was months ago, maybe, not _last fucking week_. "What?"

And the Usopp sighs, like he'd expected that. "Out back of the bar on Tuesday night. You were asleep and I woke you up so you wouldn't set yourself on fire. Which, you know, isn't a very _suave_ thing to do—dying 'cause you dropped a lit cigarette on your clothes. Made you seem kind of... normal, I guess?"

Sanji glances at him again, and yeah—wow—his voice actually _does_ sound kind of familiar, now that he has a place to put it. The conversation had lasted less than a few minutes that night, and Sanji had mostly forgotten about it (because most of his attention that night had been focused on yelling at Gin and trying not to die at the hands of the ridiculously loud music) but the fact that their paths have crossed so many fucking times without him really _noticing_ strikes him as kind of uncomfortable, in a way. Like the universe has been setting him up for something without bothering to ask his opinion on it first.

He lights the fresh cigarette with one hand on the wheel and his foot falls harder on the gas again, gradually increasing pressure. It's Sunday afternoon in the middle of buttfuck nowhere, and the straight two-lane highway is completely deserted. The speed limit out here is seventy, anyway, and the roar of it all serves to sort of mirror the rushing in his head, now—the bubbling anger that's _always_ there and _always_ shoots up at the wrong times.

"So you stalked me for weeks and we had _one_ conversation and you thought _oh hey, let's be the best goddamn pair of pals_?"

Usopp flails again, wider this time, and turns bodily in his seat to completely face Sanji. "I thought you _knew_ who I was! But, like, you didn't say anything because you had this whole _act_ to keep up!"

"That's the biggest load of bullshit I've ever heard."

"Yeah, I know _that_ now. You really _are_ an asshole—a creepy asshole who pays his friend to stare at her butt and flirts with married women and is for some reason really good with kids? And who freaking snubs people for _no good reason_ without even trying to be friendly!"

"What the fuck is _that_ suppos—"

Suddenly, a sharp, shrill ringing sounds up through the speakers of the car, and both jump at the unexpected sound, Sanji unintentionally swerving the car when he does. Usopp yelps, "What the _hell?_ " as Sanji yanks the wheel back toward the right lane, spitting curses the whole way, and only when they're both gasping and terrified into silence does the cook realize it's his phone ringing through the Bluetooth connection.

His heart is pounding and he's white-knuckled on the steering wheel, _scared_ but mostly pissed. So when he _slams_ the fucking answer button on his dashboard, the first thing he does when the beeping stops is scream, " _What the fuck do you want?_ " because that's the only way he knows how to deal with it.

There's complete silence for a moment, then, only the sounds of mild static through the call and the (much quieter, now that the car has slowed down) wind outside. And then there's a kind of choking noise, and Sanji feels his stomach drop and his face go white.

" _I-I'm sorry—_ " the voice says, small and scared and clearly about to cry.

"Chopper, wai—" but it's too late, the call cuts off, and the car is left in a sort of tense, empty _nothingness_ while Sanji tries to process what just happened. And fuck, _oh fucking fuck_ , in his rage and wrathful haste to get the hell off the farm he'd forgotten one very, very, _very_ important thing. 

Chopper's peas.

_That_ had been was Franky tried to tell him, and he'd just roared curses at a twelve year old _child_ who was just so damn _proud_ of his fucking _plants_ and who looked up to him so _goddamn much_ for some _stupid fucking reason_ and—

Sanji yells, loud and incoherent and _furious_ —furious at himself and at Usopp and _himself_ , and slams his foot on the fucking gas pedal because he has to do _something_ and he—

—he's so goddamn _angry_ , he's _shaking_ , he's shaking and Usopp is right next to him hyperventilating and he just wants to fucking _hit something_ but he _can't_ so he just—

— the road isn't straight anymore, suddenly, there's a fucking curve—a fucking curve that's so slight to the left that there aren't any yellow warning signs but it's _enough_ and they're going ninety, they're going ninety right now and—

_Fuck_.

* * *

At first, there's nothing.

Just a sort of empty haze, a numbness, fuzzy and heavy and uncomfortable.

_—is he breathi—_

_—someone get th—_

Then there are sounds, maybe, but they fade in an out with each passing... something? Minutes or hours, maybe, he can't tell. There's a tug on him—on his whole body—and then there's _pain_ , and he doesn't understand what's going on or why.

_—ver here! Stop the ble—_

There's beeping, too, background noise behind the muffled voices, like a siren or cell phone alarm or the timer on an oven, and there's red (he can't see it, he thinks, but he can feel it, or maybe he _can_ see it and he just can't process what he's seeing. Red like—red like—he can't think of anything red, for once. No foods, no booze, no comparison. It's just a _color_ ) and there's more yelling, and a creaking, and—

Then, once again, there's nothing.

* * *

There is a universal law, unspoken but recognized throughout the entire world in every city and state and country, that all hospital rooms should be white. Clear, clean, sanitary, blinding _white_. It's a very stupid rule, because white, naturally, _hurts_. And the whole point of a hospital is to heal. White strains the eyes and promotes a sort of instinctive stress in the body and mind, a kind of emotional reaction to some unspoken scream of _"Do not touch!_ " and, as a direct result, this natural feeling of disconnect. Detachment. Disorientation.

 Sanji is muddled beyond belief.

The whole world is oddly punch-drunk blurry, and the monochrome screen of brightness totally halts any sense of real awareness he may or may not have. And it sucks.

A lot.

Somewhere in the distance—or maybe in his own head, he has no idea—there's a sort of soft tinkling, the gentle curve of language and music, and maybe real speech on top of that.

" _Putain._ "

There's a shuffling, then, and the noises that might be some French song and talking sort of stop. Sanji isn't sure where the curse comes from, though—he's still trying to figure out who he is (Sanji Motherfucking Vinsmoke, two-star Michelin chef, resident chain-smoker and possible alcoholic, perfectionist of the highest degree, adopted son and protégé of former three-star Michelin chef Zeff Royt-Fus, self-destructive head of the Baratie kitchen) and what the fuck is going on—so the origin of a single expletive isn't particularly high on his list.

"At least some things don't change," a sudden, gruff, clear voice declares, and it's spoken so unusually soft that Sanji doesn't really recognize it at first.

In some far-off way, one singular, poignant thought occurs  to Sanji, and instantly there's a voice in the room verbalizing it (which is a little weird, he thinks). " _Je vais être_ late. _Je dois_ —I need _partir_." It sounds slurred, broken and scratchy, and in the pause that follows Sanji realizes, slowly, that it's _his_. God, he sounds like shit.

The first voice speaks up again, and now that Sanji's bearings are slowly being realigned he thinks it might belong to Zeff. But it's still so quiet—so unnaturally quiet—that he can't really be sure. And the whiteness is making it hard to concentrate on anything. "Pick a language, squirt," Zeff says, and then when Sanji doesn't immediately answer (what does he mean _pick a language_? He's just—Sanji's just _speaking_ —they're just _words_ —is there a difference between them?) he hums, "I guess it doesn't matter. Can you understand me?"

" _Bien sûr, vous vieillard de merde_."

Someone snorts, and it's a different sort of tenor from Zeff's voice, so Sanji thinks there must be another person in the room. He blinks, then, (or at least he thinks he does, and he must, because the whiteness fades for a moment) because his eyes are starting to burn. And with that single action, he starts to come back to himself. His face, his neck, his arms, his torso, his hands, his legs—all oddly numb, but all there.

"Yeah, he's fuckin' fine," the new voice says, and—that's Patty, maybe. "Asshole's got a concussion and he's still cussin' you out." Yeah, definitely Patty.

Now that Sanji's slightly more self-aware, he starts noticing something above everything else. It's slow at first, and then exponentially _fast_ , like a metal ball rolling down a hill, gaining speed with every inch.

_Pain_.

There's a sort of wheezing noise; a strained, breathy, whine, and he thinks it might come from _him_ but now the white is _too bright too bright_ and he doesn't really care who's talking _and fuck, fuck, fuck._

( _White, white, white. Marshmallows and daikon and tapioca and cottage cheese and—_ )

More talking, louder, more insistent and urgent—a single shout—sharp beeping—

Nothing.

* * *

When Sanji wakes again, he feels much more like himself. In that, of course, he's almost entirely self-aware. Consciousness this time comes like a groggy morning, not a jolting shock, and for a moment he's entirely convinced he's just suffering from a really, really, _really_ terrible hangover. His head is spinning, aching, and his limbs feel heavy, and he's vaguely nauseous. Sitting up seems like a terrible idea so he doesn't even bother with it, but he does make some small attempt at opening his eyes.

He is not in his apartment.

That realization in and of itself is enough to snap his brain into a somewhat dizzying sense of clarity, and he tries to lift his head, only to find that he can't. Sanji yanks his arms, then, instantly thrown into panic, and _they_ move but not easily—like there are strings attached to them, holding him down.

"Whoa, Whoa, easy."

Suddenly there are hands pushing him back, gently putting pressure on his shoulders, and Carne's face appears in his line of vision. "What—?" It hurts to talk.

Carne looks tired, Sanji thinks. He has bags under his eyes and even though he's smiling, it's not the usual sort of arrogant, smug grin he's always wearing. Something is wrong, but somehow he looks relieved, too.

"You're at EB General," Carne says quietly, leaning back a little, taking the weight off Sanji's shoulders. "You were in an accident."

An accident?

( _Anger, too fast, screaming, yanking the steering wheel, more screaming, more anger._ )

( _Usopp._ )

Sanji bolts up again, this time managing to actually lift his upper body, and Carne kind of jumps at the sudden movement. "Where is he?" His voice cracks midway through and it's so low and raspy Sanji startles himself, but he doesn't have time to dwell on that because _Usopp he'd been so mad at him but he didn't mean to—_

"Your friend?" Carne asks, suddenly looking uncertain. "He's in the ICU ward, but I haven't heard anythin' about his condition. They ain't lettin' us know shit 'cause—'cause technically..." He sort of trails off, then, and looks away.

_Because technically it's your fault_.

And it is—Sanji fucking _knows_ it. But for some reason, right now, he doesn't care about the legal implications of that, about what could happen to him and to the Baratie and to his family. He only needs to know that _Usopp is going to be okay,_ although he isn't sure whether it's because he wants to ease the guilty feeling _clawing_ at the pit of his stomach or because he genuinely cares. (And he doesn't want to think about what that means for who he is as a person if it's just the first reason.)

Sanji makes a sort of pained, frustrated noise that snaps Carne to attention again, and within seconds he's fussing around Sanji, asking if he wants his bed elevated (yes) and if he wants water (yes) and if anything hurts (no, even though that's kind of a lie). Carne busies himself with explaining what he _does_ know as he goes about it all, and the more he talks the more that knawing ache grows.

The on-board crash detector had notified police as soon as Sanji's car had flipped, and they'd been found on the side of the road, still inside the vehicle, resting on its right doors after blowing through the metal highway border. The turn had been to the left, which put the brunt of the accident on the passenger side and left Sanji with minor injuries—a concussion, bruised ribs, severe whiplash, and a dislocated hip. Usopp, however, hadn't been so lucky. The paramedics had arrived on-scene as soon as possible, but beyond Usopp's immediate trauma (Carne doesn't mention what it was, or even if he knows it at all) Zeff hadn't been told anything.

Carne stops talking when a nurse arrives, probably at his request, and starts taking measurements of Sanji's vitals. She asks questions, checks the machines he's hooked to, and shines a light in his eyes, but Sanji isn't paying attention—not really. He's too busy running over every worst case scenario in his head ( _he's dead, he's lost the use of his legs or his arms or both, he's dying, he's suffered severe brain damage, he's dead_ ) and only absently doing what he's supposed to. He doesn't even feel the sort of _need_ to swoon over her that usually takes over when he sees a fine woman; the self-imposed, disgusting not-chivalry he's become accustomed to over the years. All he can do is hope she and Carne write it off as the result of his head injury.

Halfway through a blood pressure test, though, there's a sudden bout of _furious shouting_ outside his room. Screaming and cursing and fighting, almost, and it snaps Sanji out of his stupor for just a moment. The nurse goes a little pale and starts moving toward the door, but it's too late.

"—m gonna _kill him_. Get _off me_. He hurt Usopp and I've got to— _let go of me!_ " In an instant, the door flies open and a lithe, black-haired incarnation of pure _fury_ bursts in, followed directly on his heels by three security officers and a taller, broader young man who looks caught somewhere between anger, amusement, and frustrated embarrassment. Sanji doesn't have time to dwell on what all that means because just as soon as he's in the room, the kid bolts to his bedside and punches him _directly in the face_ , and the force of the blow sends his head snapping back painfully against the wooden headboard.

Sanji's vision fuzzes out for a minute and he feels like his neck is about to break in half, but he's still startlingly aware of the sounds of a colorful scuffle at his right. "Luffy, _stop,_ " someone yells, a low, gruff voice that doesn't sound particularly forceful or panicked—like whoever is saying it is just doing so because he _has_ to—and there's more fighting, then.

When Sanji gets his bearings, the nurse is frozen, one hand out in his direction like she wants to do something but isn't sure what she should, turned halfway to the pile of limbs and navy blue police uniforms on the floor.

The black-haired kid is pinned down, now, but he hasn't stopped growling and spitting and struggling like a caged animal. The other guy (who has his hair dyed this ridiculously bright shade of garish green) is standing off to the side, arms crossed, glaring at Sanji, and he doesn't seem the least bit concerned about the person he'd followed in, or the fact that he'd just _assaulted_ a hospital patient. Carne has his fists up, zeroed in on him, ready to fight if he makes a move, but the guy doesn't seem inclined to do anything but shoot daggers with his eyes now that the first kid has made their point very, _very_ clear.

 Well, shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [my tumblr](http://swordsmans.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://swordsmans.tumblr.com/)


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